


Heavy is the Crown

by PurplePufferFish



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Angst, Bard grows up, Bard is sad, Family, First Meeting, M/M, Pre-Slash, Slow Build, Thranduil doesn't know how to express emotion, Unresolved Sexual Tension, everyone is sad, hot dads unite, sort of, thranduil is sad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2015-03-13
Packaged: 2018-03-13 10:04:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3377456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PurplePufferFish/pseuds/PurplePufferFish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Bard saw the enigmatic king of the Mirkwood elves, he was only a boy. A chance encounter would ensure that time would not erase that image of perfection, and little did that boy know of the future bond that would form between them over the years. Pre-slash Barduil; slightly AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Wow I didn’t think I’d be writing again so soon but here I am. I’m in love with the Barduil ship and had to write my own little project concerning these two idiots. This story, as most of mine do, ventures into AU territory (in that in the beginning the Lake-town people don’t normally associate with the elves), but not too much. This will be about 4 or 5 chapters as I have it mapped out now, and I hope you guys enjoy it :D

Though he was a descendent of Girion, a lord of the former settlement of Dale, the family into which Bard was born had not even a modest portion of affluence. His mother and father brought him into the world later in life and consequently were aging by the time he had seen only a decade of life. An only child, he spent much of his time aiding his family in their day to day tasks, for life was not the kindest in the town of Esgaroth. From the time Bard had understood common speech he had known how scarce food was – living in the middle of a lake provided little opportunity for proper farming or livestock cultivation, and so his family saw many a hungry night. 

“ _Why don’t we just go into the forest and hunt_?” Bard had asked his father, feeling at the time as though it was a logical train of thought.

“ _’Not our forest to hunt in_ ,” his father had replied, trying to patch a hole in their dilapidated home. “ _No one ever goes in there if they want to come back_.”

“ _But why_?” questioned the child.

His father had stopped concentrating on his task and turned to face Bard. “ _The elves rule those woods, son. You best never deal with the despicable likes of them_.”

Bard had been seven years of age at the time. Four years later saw the death of his father from an illness in winter and the worst food shortage Lake-town had seen since its establishment. The town relied on trade to keep its economy stable, and shortages of goods lead to many problems. Desperate times called for desperate measures, and the town’s Master, a corrupt and avaricious man who had ruled over Esgaroth for as long as the child could remember, made a decision before his people began rioting. They would seek aid from their elven neighbors. Bard remembered only his departed father’s words when he heard the news.

Several days passed after the decree had been made and Bard went about his normal routine, having taken up the main male role in his home. His mother would be out most of the day searching for food, the little money they had doing little good due to its rapidly decreasing worth, but she arrived back early one day, excitement livening her furrowed face.

“The elves have come!” she announced, and Bard began to worry. “Come quickly, everyone is gathering at the Master’s palace!”

Bard followed his mother, and together they pushed their way into the crowd surrounding the palace, which was simply a glorified house. There was an energy in the crowd that Bard had not yet experienced in his eleven years of life; hope had fallen over the starving townspeople. They were badly yearning for the same thing, and even if there were negative feelings towards the elves as a race, they would accept help from whatever source possible. 

The Master stood on the steps of his substandard stronghold, seemingly sober and attentive for once in his life. Suddenly everything went silent. Bard separated from his mother and wove around the bodies until he reached the edge of the horde, leaning out between two other boys to see what the commotion was about. What he observed stunned him. 

Young Bard had never before seen an elf, had never before heard of their physical appearance, and accordingly his own mind had conjured up a picture of them that was far from the truth. In his head elves were hideous woodland beasts, but seeing them now…

A procession of the most beautiful creatures the boy had ever seen seemed to drift amid the onlookers. Surely this could not be the “despicable” race that Bard’s father had spoken of! They looked more like angels or spirits than the monsters Bard had conjured in his imagination. They were all so… _pure_. Bard felt tremendously unclean looking at them. Some had black hair, some brown, and two, the two in the front seemingly leading the convoy, had hair so white that it appeared to glow among the bleak colors of Esgaroth’s destitution. There was no mistaking the leaders were of some relation, but one, the more regal of the two, was clearly the eldest. He carried himself with such refinement and confidence that Bard did not even have to see the crown adorning his head to know that he was royalty. 

The ethereal leader’s eyes were fixed on only the Master, while the other white-haired elf looked this way and that, outwardly curious and animated.

“Welcome, King Thranduil!” boomed the Master’s voice, and Bard drug his gaze away. _Of course, a King_. “I am most joyful to see you have arrived so quickly after hearing of our plight.”

The leader had passed where Bard watched now, standing at the bottom of the palace steps. And in a smooth, cool voice the elf replied, “Do not patronize me, I have known of your struggles for quite some time. I would have thought you would have had the decency to appeal to us sooner but,” he canted his head to the side, “ _evidently not_.”

The Master shifted, his initial vigor dwindling fast. “Trifles, my lord, I can assure – “

“Shall we discuss the details of our agreement in confidence?” interrupted the king, his tone clipped and increasingly bitter towards the other ruler.

“Y-yes,” agreed the Master, gesturing toward his palace.

The elven leader – Thranduil as it were – turned to the other fair-haired male with him and said something in a language that was completely foreign to Bard’s ears, then, with two of the dark headed elves accompanying him, he followed Lake-town’s autocrat indoors. Murmurs filled the crowd as everyone looked on in anticipation. The remaining elves exhibited serene expression, but their demeanor was anything but, their bodies tensed and eyes vigilant. Only the king’s relation showed signs of openness, going so far as to briefly interact with some equally inquisitive children on the other side of the path area.

It was not long before the elf king and his guards emerged from the palace doors, no less compelling. The Master trailed after them, clearly trying to keep up with their long strides but falling short. He remained at the top of the steps once more and spoke out over the waiting throng of people, “An agreement has been reached. King Thranduil will allow hunting and gathering in a stretch of land south of his halls bordered by the river and the mountains. No man may travel past the river nor any further west than the mountains or the agreement is negated.” 

The latter part was drowned out by thunderous ovation. Bard was jostled as people moved this way and that, but he still had the three elves in his view. They were not far away now, steadily moving towards his vantage point as the jubilant crowd inundated them. Most kept their distance out of reverence and the king simply nodded and kept his eyes fixed on his waiting procession, but one eager spectator laid hands on the light-haired elf’s forearm and it was as if they carried an illness. Thranduil wrenched his arm away from their grasp so swiftly and forcefully that one of the decorative buttons that ran up the sleeve of his robes was ripped from the fabric. It flew through the air, hitting the wooden ground and rolling until it came to rest at young Bard’s feet.

He blinked, quickly bending down to retrieve it. The small, rounded piece of metal was by far the most intricate object Bard had ever laid eyes upon. It was ornamented with intricate engravings, the hollowed center displaying a delicate, golden leaf. He turned it over in his hand, fascinated by its complexity until he happened to look up again…

…only to meet the icy gaze of the Elvenking.

Bard’s breath caught in his throat. The noise around him had not stopped, nor had anyone noticed the tiny button land at the boy’s feet except for the king himself. Someone bumped into Bard – he nearly lost his balance, hand clamping shut over the object before regaining his footing and facing Thranduil again. Slowly, he extended his arm, opening his fingers and presenting the lost button. The tall elf waited for a beat, then approached him, attention solely fixed on Bard.

Thranduil reached the boy and regarded him with an inscrutable face. Up close, his features were even more striking, as if taken straight from an artist’s canvas. Bard had forgotten how to breathe correctly, dumbfounded by the perfection peering down at him. He raised his shaking hand so the king would not have to lower himself to retrieve his possession. The elf’s eyes flitted from Bard’s face to the hand being offered to him, then back to his face.

“You would return to me something so small?” said Thranduil, expression remaining blank but tone betraying a sentiment of disbelief. “Why?”

Bard found his voice gracelessly and his answer reflected this fact. “I – I don’t know, sir. ‘Not mine to take, sir.”

Something softened only just on Thranduil’s countenance. His long fingers, adorned with rings so ornate that they could, without a doubt, buy food for the entire settlement of Lake-town, encircled Bard’s significantly smaller hand and closed the boy’s own fingers around the small, metal circle. The elf’s skin was softer and cleaner than any Bard had seen in his entire ten years.

“Keep it,” the king told him lowly. “Remember this day.” 

And then he was gone, immersed into the sea of townspeople once more.

Bard would heed the words spoken to him, keeping the decorative button with him for years to come as a reminder of what had occurred both in his life and the lives of his fellow people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for reading! This little button thing will make reappearance at some point, and in every chapter, Bard will have grown older. I also took some liberties with exactly how deprived the people of Lake-town were – I figured their trade industry would have some slow points for periods of time. Please do tell me what you think and I will update ASAP :D


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoy this next chapter :) Let me know what you think!

Several summers came and went. Lake-town steadily regained a secure economy with the free access to the game and other foodstuff that Mirkwood had to offer; the value of currency began to even itself out again as well. The changing of the seasons also brought about many transformations in Bard. The boy grew taller, and at fifteen his face had matured, his features more chiseled and eye-catching. His mother would tell him he was the finest looking boy his age in all of Esgaroth, but nonetheless he thought her words untrue.

 Bard continued to do everything that was needed to meet the needs of his small family, going to people each day to see if they needed help with different tasks for a small profit. His mother did what she could, but there was little a woman of sixty could do by way of physical labor that would be satisfactory enough. Every day Bard would wake up at the crack of dawn to search for potential work – he had begun to forget what it was like to have friends or any time for hobbies, though his mother encouraged him to take time away for himself. He thought the notions trivial in light of his family’s circumstances.

 What was not inconsequential, however, were the memories of what had occurred that fateful day nearly five years ago.

 Bard could not put the elves out of his head – could not put their king’s eyes from the recesses of his mind. At times he was ashamed of thinking of the beautiful race of people when he should have been concentrating on making a livelihood for his mother, but it was quite impossible to forget such flawless beings. The world around him was still so dim, the buildings still as decrepit as they were when Bard had been ten, and while the people’s spirits had been lifted with the influx of food and the value of currency rising, they were still run-down and lacking in the appeal of the elven race.

 It was in periods of time when he was alone that Bard would take out the small button that had fallen from the sleeve of King Thranduil’s robe and inspect it. By the time he reached fifteen, he had inspected it so frequently that the coating of gold on the small leaf in the center had begun to wear away. Bard kept the object in the back corner of the chest where he stored his clothes, not daring to ever bring it out of the house with him for fear of losing it, that is until it found itself in his pocket one momentous day.

“Bard,” his mother said. “You’re quite old enough now to accompany the men into the forest. You must learn how to hunt – you cannot expect to be able to find small jobs your whole life.”

The thought of leaving Lake-town excited Bard, but he remained composed, answering, “I know nothing about hunting, mother. Would I not slow them down?”

She _tsk_ ed him. “None of that now. Go seek out Mister Farman – Iordanus Farman. He will make sure you know what to do.”

And that was how the elvish button ended up in Bard’s pocket as he walked through town towards Farman’s residence. He had taken the object in hand at the last minute, decided it might bring him good fortune, and placed it within the pocket of his trousers.

Farman was happy to know that Bard wished to go along with the hunting party and learn their ways and agreed to take the boy under his wing, so to speak. The two left straight away, joining up with the small band of boats that were set to sail across the lake to the Mirkwood forests. Bard looked on in excitement as the shoreline grew nearer and nearer. The towering trees created a darkness that began directly beyond the shore, validating the name of the territory. 

Bard had could count on one hand the amount of times he had set foot on a surface other than the wooden walkways that lined the water-bound town, and when his boot made contact with the dry ground, he found it most strange. He took one step after the other, watching the way his feet interacted with the sandy earth and forgetting for a moment the reason he had joined the hunting party. This youthful reverie was cut short when the group of men reached the forest’s edge. Bard craned his neck back to look up into the trees above, a dizzy feeling causing his head to spin. He swayed; Mirkwood was much more intimidating up close.

Farman clapped a burly hand on Bard’s shoulder, laughing heartily. “Easy there, boy! Don’t fall faint on us now!”

Bard shook off the unsteadiness and followed the hunters across the invisible wall into the shadows. His eyes adjusted quickly, as there was minimal lighting provided by gaps in the thick canopy. The trees were seemingly endless, creating an eerie world as far as the eye could see. Who knew what lurked in this dark sanctuary… 

The hunters began to split off into groups and Bard stayed by Farman’s side, trailing behind two other men who paid him no mind. He felt like a burden, but felt as though he could make up for it if he proved himself competent in good time. All the men carried bows – Bard had clearly missed the memo, although it was not as if it would have changed anything anyway. He had only a small knife with him. One by one, the men took posts around the area; one of them climbed a great distance up one of the trees. Farman led Bard to a rocky outcropping and the pair sank down between two boulders. Then, the waiting began.

It seemed like a millennia until the patience paid off, for lo and behold, a large deer came softly stepped into the hunters’ sights. Bard had only ever seen the creatures after they had been killed or from a great distance and he was astonished at the animal’s grace. Its feet tread daintily through the leaf litter, ears twitching this way and that and eyes doing the same. For a moment, Bard’s attention was focused so on the deer that it was akin to his first sighting of the elves. Off to his left, Farman nocked an arrow swiftly and soundlessly, taking aim.

Suddenly, the deer’s head turned towards the pair and it responded with a panicked snort; its legs propelled it away quickly. All around Bard and Farman, the forest came to life with frightened animals – deer of every size charged past the hunters’ hiding places. The bowmen all stood, their covers blown, and took their chances with shooting down one of the deer while Bard climbed atop one of the rocks to observe the action. In the end, their efforts yielded only a single kill, not nearly enough to return with. And so it was that the hunting party moved elsewhere.

The rest of the day was grossly unsuccessful, one of the “worst days they had seen in a long time,” according to Farman. Several of the men jested that it was Bard’s fault – that he brought them bad fortune, but Farman dissuaded the jokes, informing them that Bard had been nothing but perfect as far as behavior went. The boy was encouraged by these words, though he wished he could do something to help.

At the end of the hunt, they still had only one deer to speak of, in addition to an assortment of small animals and various medicinal plants one of the men had collected. On the way back towards the shore, Bard hung back, studying his surroundings. He stuck his hands in his pockets and found the elvish button, reminding him that these were, in fact, the king’s woods. Curious how such refined beings could inhabit such a wild territory.

The group of hunters were far ahead of him now, caught up in their own conversation, an action which Bard was relieved they indulged in, for he was very conscious of his own irritation to them. He kept them in sight, but allowed himself to become immersed in the trees, listening to all the sounds and observing every detail he could.

Suddenly, a small bird came scuttling across Bard’s path. Its body was large and its wings were far too small to carry it into flight. It stopped, looked at him, and continued on its merry way, but Bard had an idea. The bird was something he could successfully catch – he knew it. He glanced ahead to where the men were, and there, in the distance, was the shore, light and welcoming. It would be easy to find his way back, all he had to do was keep track of the direction he was headed. And how hard could the little bird be to immobilize?

He started after his quarry, walking slowly at first, but when the bird realized it was being followed, it took off. Bard gave chase, nearly losing it in the dense foliage, but he never took his eyes off of the prize. Eventually, the flightless bird took a sharp turn and disappeared, leaving Bard by himself to catch his breath. He looked around him; he could no longer see the edge of the tree line behind him. Impossible! He had not gone awfully far, or at least he _assumed_ he had not. Everything had grown much darker in a matter of moments, the world around the boy taking on an unnerving glow. Bard’s heart began to race, and he quickly turned around and ran back the way he had come, but something was wrong. Nothing looked the same. 

It was with this realization that his foot caught on an uneven patch of ground and he fell, tumbling down a shallow incline. He landed in an ungraceful heap at the bottom, thankful that he had sheathed his knife prior. When he stood to his feet, he brushed himself off and looked up…only to be met with the sight of an elf standing not ten feet away.

Bard did not move as the elf watched him in haunting stillness. It was male, and the long, brown hair cascading over the earthy-toned garb made him appear one with the forest around him. 

“What business have you across the established borders?” came a voice from behind the boy. Bard swore his heart skipped a beat at the unexpected question. 

He turned slowly to find another elf standing closer to him than the first. The hair of this creature was fair, and Bard immediately recognized him as one of the elves who had accompanied the king to Esgaroth back when the agreement was reached. His face bore no aggression, but displayed a hurried curiousness nonetheless.

“I did not know I had strayed, sir elf. I was pursuing some game and I must have…must have gotten lost.” The elf’s brow furrowed at the explanation, and Bard added, “It is my first excursion into these woods. I did not know where I was going.”

The light-haired elf studied him, no doubt looking for any ill intent, and then said, “I believe you to be telling the truth.” Bard exhaled in relief, but that relief was crushed when he continued, “However, our treaty with your people still stands, and you have ventured too deep into our lands. For that, you must come with us.”

Bard opened his mouth to protest, but no sound escaped. He could feel the panic welling up inside of him, stifling his words as a cold fear spread over his entire body. Finally, “But I must return to my mother – she…she will worry!”

The elf’s eyes grew more frigid. “My King’s word is law, you would do best to obey and pose no struggle.”

And so it was that Bard, a boy of merely fifteen years, was escorted by a group of elves that seemingly materialized out of the trees through Mirkwood to face the king.

…

…

…

Just like the elves, the king’s palace made itself scarce, hidden and doubtlessly impossible to find without a guide who knew of its location. The walk from where Bard had been confronted to the gargantuan structure was long, difficult, and dark. Bard struggled to keep his footing next to the lithe elves, the uneven ground causing him to stumble more than once. Even though he could theoretically be viewed as a prisoner, the beings around him were not unkind – though they were ascetic – and did not lay hands on him.

Bard could not help but feel very nervous about the prospect of having to face the unearthly king again. The regal elf had plagued many a thought over the years and Bard had never truly considered the idea of having to meet him again. What would come about? Would he be thrown into the dungeons for an age for breaking the agreement? Would they kill him? Bard blanched at the last mental inquiry, shaking his head swiftly in an attempt to shake the prospect from his mind. Of course they would not end his life – they had no reason to and he had done no wrong. Surely the king would understand!

When the journey was through and the gargantuan doors rose to the heavens ahead of the traveling party, Bard sank into an anxious state, despairing that he had not even an inkling of what was to come. The fair elf directed the doors to be opened, and the guards bade them entrance into a place that could only be described as a work of art. For just an instant, Bard was so amazed at the interior that the gravity of the situation slipped his mind, and he lost himself in gazing at the intricate architecture above, below, and all around him. In his admiration he did not take notice of the empty throne they were approaching straight away.

They stopped before it, and the white-haired elf summoned what appeared to be a servant, saying, “We found this trespasser beyond the borders – go inform King Thranduil of this.” The servant quickly went off to obey, once again making Bard wonder what authority he who had given the order possessed, though he dared not ask. He kept his mouth prudently shut. 

The minutes crept by at an agonizingly slow pace as Bard tried to breathe, feeling faint. The elves around him stood as still as statues of marble, the only indication of their livelihood being the slight movement of their hair in the drafts of air that flowed throughout the large space.

“What is this…?” a cold voice drifted to Bard’s ears and he flinched, startled. His head turned swiftly and his eyes took in the sight before him. 

There stood the being that he had remembered so vividly, adorned in robes no less ornate than before and as perfectly-featured as any piece of artwork could convey. He bore a skeptical expression, one eyebrow raised while his gaze flicked back and forth between the fair-haired elf and Bard.

“You failed to mention that the individual you apprehended was a _child_ ,” Thranduil condescended.

“I am sorry, Father.”

And in those four, little words, Bard finally understood the two elves looked so similar – a king and his son. It all made sense. The prince lowered his head, a submissive gesture.

Thranduil then addressed Bard, “What have you to say? _Surely_ your people have informed you of the treaty and all of its stipulations?”

Bard slowly nodded, wishing that his face had not changed so much, wishing that the Elvenking could recognize him. “I knew the agreed borderlines, I swear it. My crossing them was but an accident and I promise I – “

The king raised a hand and effectively silenced him. He closed his eyes for a moment, breathing deeply, and said, “I do not take kindly to intruders in my lands, child. Intruders are equated with potential harm, and I have no reason to take you for an honest boy. And am I not to be wary of spies in my Kingdom?” Bard’s face showed his growing desperation. “Yes…” the king continued. “I do believe I will keep you here for a while lest you pose any threat in the future.”

Thranduil began to turn away, giving some offhanded command to the surrounding guards to take Bard to the dungeons, but the boy was panicking. He had to think of something! There had to be some way to…

Then he remembered that he still had the Elvish button in his pocket.

“Wait!” he cried to the king, who looked over his shoulder with a scowl. “I can prove my honestly, sir – just…just let me show you something.”

Thranduil focused his attention on Bard once more as the young man removed the tiny button from within the pocket of his trousers. He approached the king, despite the protest of the other elves, and displayed the object in his palm. “Years ago,” said Bard, “when you came to Lake-town, you lost this and I tried to give it back to you. You did not take it.”

Bard watched as the face of the Elvenking went from frigid, to surprised, and finally it melted into some amalgamation of understanding and disbelief. He studied Bard’s face, the memories seemingly clicking into place, and he nodded in response.

“I…do remember,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading :3


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hello, friends! I have returned :3 This chapter is not as long as the last one, however, it is not as short as the first one, so...that has to mean something, doesn't it? Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

As it turned out, Bard was not, in fact, taken to the dungeons. Instead, the elf king ordered his guards to show the boy to a guest room, disappearing soon after. His face had not lost its startled look even as he retreated, and his son noticed it with disquiet. The prince offered to lead Bard to one of the designated visitor’s rooms then, dismissing the other guards. Bard followed the elf silently, still clutching the button firmly in his fist like a lifeline. He allowed his eyes to wander around the vast interior of the elven halls again, trying to distract himself from the worry he knew he was inflicting on his mother by not returning with the hunting party.

“What troubles you?” the prince’s voice drifted back. Bard looked up and met the curious, blue eyes. 

“My mother probably thinks me dead – I cannot bear the thought of causing her grief, even for a little while.”

The fair elf nodded. “I understand. You will return to her when morning comes.” He paused, then said, “I am Legolas. What are you called?” 

“Bard.”

Legolas smiled lightly; the action made his youthful face even younger. “I can only apologize for causing you any strife earlier back in the forest. My father does not take kindly to strangers as you well noticed, and I must obey his orders.”

Bard had nothing to say in reply, and was thankful when the elf stopped in front of a door. Behind it was a room of luxury that Bard had never seen in his life. It was as if someone had taken an image from his childhood fantasies of wealth and laid it before him. He stepped into the space before the elf, eyes wide.

“I do hope that you take well to our rooms. We rarely have guests anymore,” Legolas’ voice was contrite behind him. 

Turning around, Bard faced the prince and shook his head. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

“Then it brings me joy to know of you are content.” If it had been anyone else, Bard would have doubted Legolas’ sincerity, but he knew the elves to be creatures of their word, deeply emotional and expressive even though they did not outwardly show it. Legolas continued, “I will leave you to settle in. A servant will bring you some food later, and then tomorrow morning we will assure safe passage to your home.” 

Bard was very grateful for the prince’s kindness, not feeling the icy atmosphere that accompanied the king’s presence, but all he could manage was, “Thank you.”

Legolas dipped his head and departed, shutting the door behind him as he left. Bard stared at the door for a long moment, then turned to face the room for a second time. He went over to the bed, pushing down on it with one hand and welcoming its softness – he knew he would sleep well in it if he knew how his mother fared. He looked over the rest of the furnishings, all equally as extravagant. Finally, he placed the button back in his pocket, contemplating how, for the longest time, it was the only piece of this world he had, and now he was suddenly in the middle of it. If not for the circumstances, he would have allowed himself to enjoy it. 

Time crept by, and just when Bard was fancying a nap, a gentle knock on the door inhibited the idea. A servant bearing food entered the room, followed by the Elvenking himself. Bard stood a little straighter, feeling abruptly out of place in his worn, dirty clothes. He clasped his hands behind his back and tapped his fingers together to release the onset of nervous energy. Thranduil said nothing as the servant arranged the boy’s dinner on the table in the room. It was only when the domestic had left that the king looked straight at Bard.

“You are lucky, child, that the memories of my kind are so sharp,” he began, “or you would be in an entirely different situation altogether.”

“I am appreciative of it, sir,” said Bard, feeling very short.

Thranduil raised an eyebrow, “Truly?” He studied Bard again, then drawled, “Yes, I do believe you are. Will you not eat?”

Bard did not think that he could stomach any food with the intimidating king so close by, but out of courtesy, he tread over to the table and lowered himself down into one of the chairs. Thranduil stayed where he was, observing in mild amusement as the boy started to pick at the food. Bard could only dream of such provision - everything here was a dream. 

“My son tells me your name is Bard, yes?”

Embarrassed that he had been caught with a mouth full of food, Bard could only nod in response.

“And you are a descendent of Lord Girion, are you not?”

The comment made Bard nearly choke. “H-how did you know that?” he asked when he had regained his composure.

Thranduil casually swept a stray piece of his long hair over his shoulder, looking not the least but flustered by the question. “You have his face about you. I made his acquaintance in a past time and seldom do a forget a face.” Bard looked back to his food, daring not to comment on how the king had nearly thrown him in the dungeons for that very reason. “Oh,” the voice came again, “I see. You wonder why I did not recall your identity?”

“’Would be foolish for me to deny it,” shrugged Bard. 

“You have changed, as all children do. I bear in mind the day I visited Esgaroth vividly, however, you have grown since then.” 

“Oh…” Bard felt thoughtless about not having considered that before. He _had_ grown, matured, and his face was much different then it had been five years ago. Thranduil, however, had not changed in the slightest, his skin still perfect in its alabaster radiance. Bard experienced a mixture of awe and uneasiness when he looked upon the elf king – how could a being be so utterly flawless? “I…wouldn’t suppose you would” – he reached into his pocket and withdrew the small button – “want this back, sir?”

A smile so small graced Thranduil’s features that Bard thought he might have imagined it. “Do you know, Bard of Lake-town, why I permitted you to keep that ornament?”

Bard did not know the answer.

The king strode around behind where Bard sat, trailing his fingers over the back of the chair as he passed. He circled around the table and daintily sat on the other side, neatly crossing his hands on the tabletop. “It is no secret that I have no partiality for the race of Man. They are weak, imprudent, and prone to deceit.” Bard was unsure whether to be offended by Thranduil’s words or not, but then he went on. “But…the day I ventured into Esgaroth, I discovered that there might yet be hope for them when a child demonstrated stark morality.”

“I was only being polite. It was only right,” Bard replied, and Thranduil extended his hand in an indication that he wanted the object the boy held. Bard placed it in the elf’s palm, careful not to touch him.

Thranduil held the button between two fingers and studied it. “Polite over an insignificant trinket such as this, no less,” he mused, then met Bard’s gaze and with sincerity said, “Your heart is just, child, but what of your future? Do you intend to allow yourself to fall prey to the madness and depravity of your kind?” 

Though Bard was young knew little of the ways of the world beyond the lake, he tried his best to answer with clarity. “I…do not think that men intentionally go down that path, sir. I certainly don’t mean to, but I cannot be sure as of yet.” 

Thranduil hummed in response with a slight dip of his head. “Indeed,” he said at length, seeming to be concluding his own thoughts. “I must retire for the night, Bard of Lake-town. In the morn I shall be present to send off those who I have selected to accompany you back to Esgaroth.” He stood to leave, Bard following suit. “A servant will pay you a visit later to assure you are comfortable for the evening,” were the last words he said before disappearing from sight.

Bard wondered secretly if Thranduil had even been there to begin with as he went back to the table to retrieve the little button. But it was gone – the king had taken it. Oddly enough, Bard felt no anger towards the elf, confused though he was.

 _Best sleep this off_ , he thought, _tomorrow I will see home_ …

…

…

…

Morning arrived sooner then it ought to have, and Bard awoke feeling as though he had not slept a wink all through the night. He had been plagued by thoughts of his mother, unable to truly sleep. Was she all right? Had she died from grief? Surely she must have thought him dead by this point. Had a search party been sent out? Were people even concerned about him? There were too many questions on his mind for the morning hours. He slid out of the bed that would have been very comfortable if he’d had the will to sleep and stretched, bruised limbs that ached from his fall in the forest protesting. Bard pulled on the layers of his clothes he had shed before climbing into bed and took his leave of the room.

In the corridor beyond he came upon a servant who, surprised to see him out and about by his own volition, lead him up to the large, open chamber that housed the king’s throne. Thranduil was settled in, his body slightly draped over the glorified chair like some great felid. When he caught sight of Bard he waited until the boy was near enough to hear his voice without having to raise it, and he said, “I will have my son ready the convoy for your departure straightaway.” With a flick of his fingers, he had two additional servants hurrying to obey his indirect request. From atop the dais, Thranduil looked down on Bard, fixing him with an unreadable stare. “I have a gift for you, child,” he pronounced. “You may approach me.”

The boy dared not refused the Elvenking. As Bard ascended the narrow steps, he caught sight of the guards positioned around the throne, all watching him with weapons in hand, despite the permission he had been given. He stood at the top before Thranduil, once again acutely aware of his deficient stature, even as the king was nearly at eye level from where he sat.

“I wish to present you with a gift before you leave,” Thranduil said for a second time. “Something I believe you will find useful.”

From his robes he withdrew a small chain. Attached to that chain was the button, which swung innocently as Thranduil held it aloft for Bard to inspect. 

“Take it,” commanded the king, lenient in tenor but expression still as cold as winter. Bard did so, immediately looping the chain around his neck. “Now you will not have to carry it around in your pocket like some _common peasant_.” 

Thranduil seemed to have a habit of rendering Bard speechless, and he had done so without fail over again. The idea of the infamously greedy king of the elves giving a personal gift to someone not of his own race was undeniably bizarre – Bard could see the look on his mother’s face when he recounted this event to her. The thought of his mother snapped him out of whatever daze Thranduil’s actions had put him in, and he held onto the button with one hand.

“Thank you, sir,” said Bard. “Thank you.”

By that point, Legolas and a handful of other elves in traveling attire had come to stand before Thranduil’s throne. The king himself stood, dwarfing Bard.

 “You are to return the boy to Esgaroth unscathed,” he instructed, his voice carrying out across the vast halls. “Use him as a reminder to maintain the clear, established borders, then return here without delay.” Legolas and the traveling party indicated their understanding. From behind Bard, Thranduil said in a quieter, more conversational tone, “Travel safely, Bard of Lake-town. Perhaps we shall meet again someday…”

Bard hoped this was the case as he made his way down the stairs and into the waiting ranks of his escorts.

 

 

 


End file.
